


Morning Anatomy

by philomel



Category: Video Blogging & YouTube RPF
Genre: First Time, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 00:30:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philomel/pseuds/philomel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil wakes Dan up. And possibly vice versa.</p>
<p>(Sleepy human alarm clock fluff and porn.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning Anatomy

His hands curl inward on the pillows, fingers fanning out like haphazard feathers on a broken wing. 

You woke up in that position many times, your hands having fallen asleep, angled at the wrist. You shook the blood back into them, tips half-fuzzed into functionality, fumbling for the light switch or your glasses or the tangle of covers tucking you in place.

You touch the folded skin inside his palm. 

He breathes in and out. His eyelids remain closed. No twitching tells you if he felt you. 

Other times, you roused him with a shake of his shoulder, a poke in the side, your face in his face, and once a pillow snatched out from under him. Now, you linger along the lines of his hand, absently stroking while you remember random mornings and afternoons in which your face was the first thing he saw. You remember each smile, each scowl, the squinting eyes slowly focusing. 

You curve your fingers in, leaving one to trace over a vein in his wrist, testing the soft give of it under his warm skin. If you rest the pad lightly enough, his pulse should come to you. But your own heartbeat tricks you. It hammers inside you, muffled behind walls of flesh, yet still deceiving, still distracting.

Your gaze shifts to the wide span of his shoulders, the jut of bone framed between them. His clavicles cast shadows, and your fingers follow this darker stretch of skin. You stick, for a second, in the depression, then trail over the elevated collarbone, travelling the length of it toward the indentation below his neck.

You catch movement in the space above. A swallow. 

You straighten your body, jerk back, hands twisting creases into the fabric at your thighs. 

He mumbles your name. His voice gravelly, trips one syllable into two, dipping low at the end. The sound tumbles around in your stomach, echoed inside you.

This gives you nothing with which to gauge how long he's been awake. You look at the clock, but don't remember when you entered his room. You lost track of time without bothering to keep it in the first place. You start over.

You pretend you just arrived by his bedside, intending to wake him. 

You smile and tell him to get up. You tell him loudly, tugging on his duvet. Imagining a magician's flourish, you uncover him. You reveal him. You reveal his skin, flushed and naked and hard between his legs. 

You stumble, stutter out an apology. 

His fingers still you, wrapping around your wrist. He stops you with your name — your name dissected, laid out end to end until you barely recognize it as your own. He says your name the way other people say _mine_. You think: Mayan. You think of ruins. You think of your name as a caption under a photograph, labeling you.

Your name in his mouth means you belong to him. 

You know this. 

As your knees press into his mattress, his hand holds yours over his soft belly. You unclench your fingers to flex them over the rise of his body as he inhales, let him pull you in when he exhales.

With his grip on you gone, you slide your hand down, look up at him through askew lenses, slipped down the bridge of your nose.

You watch his teeth capture his lip. You hear the rustle of sheets and the deep creak of the bedsprings as he props himself up on his elbows, fingers forming loose fists like empty talons.

The back of your hand brushes over the head of his cock. You feel the slickness, the heat seeping into you. 

You fill your hand with him. You push up along the veins. You let go, watch him fall against himself. Your hand rubs from base to tip, heel first then palm flattened, fingers spread out and up. You tease him until your own skin tingles, nerves overdone, like that sleepy sensation of just waking. Your eyelids droop, your arm tires. You quicken your pace.

His mouth reddens under the clamp of his teeth. The noise that escapes is too broken to be your name.

His fingers tighten when he comes. His veins stand out, striating his neck, his arms. Sweat beads on him, runs its own paths between, over, along his veins. His come wets your fingers. You lift them slowly, testing the strings of come, drying, thickening, separating. Where it clings to you, you taste it. Your tongue scoops up under the place where it webs you together. Beneath the sharpness that reminds you somewhat of bleach, you taste salt. Beneath that: a fleeting sense of something else that, without any other point of reference, you catalogue as him. This how he tastes.

Your eyes meet his, hooded but open. You lick clean the wrinkled pads of your fingers, turn your wrist to take in your thumb. He curses and his eyes fall shut.

You tell him to wake up, and his mouth goes crooked. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes mimic birds' feet. But you think of the rays of the sun: a childish interpretation of the sun, lines extending from the center. 

In the middle of your chest, a fluttering takes your breath for a second. You know it's cliché. 

He clutches at your arms, dragging you down onto the bed, and you really do lose your breath. Your balance goes too. 

But he catches you, with bent limbs that will bear bruises by the evening. Face to face, you say good morning the same time he does, laughing, then kissing until your lips prickle with pins and needles. 

Later, much later, you get up. You get out of bed — his bed. You say his name, so light it tickles your mouth. He stands and wraps his arms around you, buries his nose in your hair, ruffling it. His hot breath makes you shiver.

_Mine_ he calls you. 

He wraps his long limbs around you and you tangle yourself up in him, fingers twining together where you overlap.

**Author's Note:**

> • Partially inspired by [this still](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v466/mankytart/DanadayinthelifeLondon_zpse172d9bd.png) from "A Day in the Life of Dan and Phil in London."
> 
>  
> 
> • Lack of names was semi-intentional, as they never seemed to fit stylistically. You could probably switch the roles and imagine Dan waking Phil, if you squint your eyes and, erm, remove the bit about glasses.
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>  
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> • As always: this is fiction, all made up-like and everything.
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> • Beta by raynemaiden.


End file.
